Teenagers

He could smell it. She had it and he wanted it...BAD. On the farm, when a cow is in heat there is no mistaking it. We are like the parents with horny teenage children. We see it in their eyes. We give them a stern talking to about the curfew: you MUST be back for the evening milking, or else. And just like me at that age, it is to no avail.

The moment the chains are released those two disappear like fugitives to greener pastures (so to speak). The toro sounds his huffy possessive moo, a signal that the surrounding herd is his and his only. But this week Mandarina has the seat of preference. She is the favored concubine among his harem: a young, beautiful bovine just exuding sexuality...literally.

So, when opportunities mount so does our bull. The evening milking comes and the cattle call is sounded by Josep and myself, "Chicas, venga!" As the sky illuminates the clouds into a fluorescent expansive of pink against the lush mountainside the girls wander their way back up to the farmhouse to relieve themselves of the incredible weight that a day full of eating has condensed into their udders. Genna stands guard, ready to take up the battle of the cereals. Genna against ruminant, ruminant against Genna. It turns out, we are neither stronger nor smarter than cows. Genna discovers the strength aspect when trying to guard the evening doling of cereals from the early arrivers who cheekily pilfer neighboring allotments or sneak into the cereal shed when we´re not looking. We both discover the intelligence aspect when we realize that even cows stop eating when they´re full, which is more than we can say. I´m only waiting for one to memorize the numbers of my checking account. But heck, that´s what you can expect from an animal that can lick INSIDE of its nostrils AND move each ear independently.


When the sun fades and the full moon rises to illuminate our valley we realize that we will not be seeing either the bull or Mandarina tonight. Tonight dinner conversation involves the usual talk of vacas in Catalan, only now "Mandarina" seems to be interspersed as often as "vacas" among the bubbling Catalan. Tomorrow, it seems, there will be hell to pay.

We arise at around eight to the sound of a buzzsaw that is the generator running suction throughout the milking barns that surround the house. Genna, not a morning girl, but definitely a bra-wearing one, awkwardly slings tangled straps around her shoulders as she forages for stinky sweatpants and a 5th day teashirt before stumbling into the bathroom we both been dreaming about since round 6AM.

By this time I am downstairs and in my shit-stained coveralls, albeit braless, and have stolen the one small pair of boots without the hole. I arrive at my post, bucket in hand, active and ready for duty sir. On a good day I arrive just in time for the first canister of milk to be poured into my bucket which I lug, lift, and pour (with finesse of course) into the double sieved huge vat. The variable amounts of milk these girls can crank out is absolutely astonishing. While some will provide only enough for breakfast, others can keep us supplied for a week.

After two weeks Genna and I have just about got this down to a science. While she hauls I scoop shit out of the second milking room and vice versa. Meanwhile we have learned to be of assistance with various tube attachments used for suction and have even personally fastened a sucker or two onto engorged teets. We swear that one day we could be in charge of the milking, but there would be no need for that as the man has been working 11 years, milking both day and night, with not one day off...NOT ONE.

Still, there is one thing I have turned out to be useful for on the farm. You might even say I´m a cowgirl. When the girls come in for their morning milking there are always a few stragglers. Today, I have rounded up all but Mandarina and the Toro and so it is that I am heading down to the electric fence to see if they have finally wandered their delinquent selves back to the gate this morning.

The good thing about being the parent of a bovine is that they come with a built-in security system. This does not only refer to the cowbell (farmer GPS) around their necks (that I´m sure my parents would have liked to attach to me), but also to the nature of the animal. Udders do not take time off for a little recreation.

There they stand, whiny adolescents lowing outside of the gate, knowing that they´re in trouble. When I open the gate, the bull meanders in, lazy and exhausted from the night´s fling and now seemingly disinterested in his conquest. Poor Mandarina, on the other hand, is in a state so pathetically hilarious that I almost keel over laughing. Hanging, bloated and massive between her shaking legs sags an enormous sack of udders dripping rich white dairy all over the cobblestone driveway.

"Venga" I tell her like the upset parent I should be, meanwhile chortling with amusement. She steps forward, each back leg painstakingly straddling the engorged balloon as she attempts to waddle her way up the hill. Her legs quiver with the weight and the awkwardness of her load. When we finally reach the milking barn the bull collapses on the floor in a heap. "I know how you feel," says Genna, "sometimes I get that way too." Mandarina, equally lethargic, leaks her way to her post where Josep does her the favor of immediately attaching the suction to her swollen teets. As they begin to deflate I swear I see relief pass across that bovine´s giant glossy eyes. Serves her right, think the three of us concerned parents as we give each other knowing winks. Ahh...teenagers.